#T-Slotted precision

[dollfacefantasy]

ddlg with chris!!!😫

who else need daddy chris rn 😔

chris redfield x fem!reader

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, ddlg, p in v, cockwarming

tags: @nexysworld @d10nyx @pupthepokemonenthusiast

It’d been a hard day for you, and Chris knew it. He could tell from the second you got home. He could tell from the rhythm of your steps, the measure of your breaths, and the wistful look in your eyes when you stepped into the living room with him. Every theory he had was confirmed when he heard you call for him.

“Daddy?”

Your voice is soft and demure, how it sounds when you get in this mood. It’s muscle memory at this point, but it’s like two wires connect among the circuitry of his brain. He’s in a mood too now. The one that directly complements yours.

“C’mere, princess,” he calls in return and pats his lap, his arms already open and awaiting your arrival.

In seconds, your bag is on the floor against the wall and you’ve closed the distance between you two. Your ass finds its familiar perch on his thigh while the rest of you sinks into his broad, pillowy chest. He strokes your head and keeps you secure against the heat of his body.

“There’s my little girl,” he murmurs.

His palm intrinsically remembers the way it’s supposed to move up and down your spine. His leg bounces a few times just to remind you that he’s here, and he’s in control now. There’s nothing for you to worry about when daddy’s got you.

That glowing warmth begins to settle over your shoulders. Your stresses leak away from your brain, leaving it empty and swimming with nothing but your want for him.

“Tell daddy what’s got you down, sugar,” he says.

A lot of the time, once you had this go-ahead, everything would just pour out of you like a broken faucet, but not right now. You weren’t in the mood to vent right now. You were in the mood for daddy to make everything better.

“Too much goin’ on,” you say simply as you slot your face in the crook of his neck.

He hums with understanding and pulls you in even closer, like it was possible for the two of you to meld together.

“Too much going on?” he repeats, “They got my baby working too hard, huh?”

You nod to the leading questions, wanting to reach the destination.

“That’s not fair. You’re not made for thinking. That’s why you got a daddy,” he murmurs, his fingers coasting upwards to massage the base of your neck.

“Mmhmm,” you hum, drawing out the syllables, “Makes my head hurt.”

“Where’s it hurt, baby?” he asks.

“Here, here, here,” you say, pointing front and center on your forehead and then behind each of your ears.

He responds in kind and lands his lips on each spot. Each kiss is precise and tender. He makes a little “mwah” sound to really drive home the power of these.

“Feel any better? Or do you need a few more?” he asks, his lips already brushing your forehead while he speaks.

“Few more,” you answer without a second thought. You were never one to turn down kisses.

He gives you the few more, and your dangling feet begin swaying back and forth subconsciously. He notices in an instant, a small tell you were slipping deeper into a docile, malleable state of mind. He guides you back a bit and tilts your chin up, wanting to look into those eyes that’d be going glossy in no time.

“Tell you what, sweetheart. I think daddy’s got an even better fix for this,” he says and smacks a kiss on your temple.

You look up at him curiously though you have an idea of what’s coming. The two of you had a familiar routine when it came to you feeling spread thin. He boosts you to your feet and tugs down your bottoms and panties, leaving you in just the t-shirt you’re wearing.

“Why don’t you grab your game, baby? Then you can come relax with daddy,” he instructs.

You nod and move to follow the directions. While you’re gone, Chris prepares himself for you. He lifts his hips and pushes his pants down to his ankles. His cock lays against the crease of his thigh, warm and heavy. Grabbing it, he gives it a few strokes to get it stiffened up. After all, nothing relaxed his sweet girl more than a few minutes on it.

You scurry back into the room, still pantless with your Nintendo in your hands. You head to him and stand between his legs. He turns you around by your hips and then guides you down onto his length.

“That’s a good girl,” he grunts as your heat engulfs him.

His head rests against the chair, and he lets out a shaky breath. You were so fucking tight and wet. Your pussy took the thickness of his cock like that was its purpose, and he couldn’t get enough.

Once you’re settled he pulls you towards him so your back is against his chest. You squirm a little to get comfortable, raising one of your feet to rest on his thigh. You settle in as if nothing is amiss. He watches over your shoulder as your game boots up. The little characters dance across the loading screen before you take control and start running around the map.

He relaxes too. His arms come to rest around your waist while his fingers rub your tummy gently.

“Look daddy. You like her dress?” you ask him as you show off the little outfit you’d dressed up the character in.

“Mhm. She’s pretty. Just like you,” he mumbles and kisses behind your ear.

You laugh a little and continue playing, showing him the different things you’d built in the game and mini tasks you had to complete.

To be honest, moments like these helped Chris relax too. His cock buried inside you as you sat there and brightened up the room. It was soothing, therapeutic even. You were dripping all over him, moving the little joysticks around as your slick dribbled over his balls.

He rubs your sides, the care he has for you seeping from his palms into the softness of your torso. Every so often, you’d move a bit to adjust yourself, and he would grit his teeth to resist the urge to thrust into your warmth. He manages to restrain himself though, knowing you just needed some time to relax before more stimulation.

Staying still for a while more, he allows you that. It’s only when he sees you beginning to stall in your game that he squeezes your hips and rolls his own as if he’s getting comfortable. You’d been trying to decide what you wanted to do next in your game, but the motion draws a whine from your throat, and you tilt your head back to look up at him.

He smiles at your sweet expression and drags one of his thumbs down your jawline. “What’re you looking at, hm?” he teases, “Is it daddy’s turn to play?”

You nod, and he rewards you with a peck to your lips. He hooks his large palms under your knees and folds your legs flush against the rest of your body. Your breath gets shakier as the elevated position lets his cock reach even deeper inside you.

You keep playing your games for a handful of thrusts, but the way he’s sliding in and out of you, hitting even the deepest of your sweet spots makes you put the handheld console aside. He nuzzles the side of your head.

“There we go. You feel a little better, baby?” he murmurs against your ear.

“Mhm,” you whimper. A soft, breathy moan leaves your throat as he pumps into you a little quicker. The pace was still nice and slow, supplying you with an even, steady stream of pleasure.

“Good girl,” he says, “You just let go, let daddy do all the work. Just let that pretty little head go empty.”

You nod lazily and turn your head to plant sloppy, weak kisses on his neck. He grunts at the feeling of your saliva coating his skin, digging his fingers into the dough of your legs. His hips continue rhythmically thrusting into your wanting hole. The feeling satisfies you like no other. You feel full and sated, like there’s nothing left on earth to long for. It makes it easier to turn your brain off.

“That’s my baby,” he coos, “My sweet little girl. Daddy’s here.”

Your noises are soft, cute mewls and delicate whines. Chris cherishes each one, savoring the way they drift to his ear and pull him further to release. He knows you’re getting closer too from the way you’re clamping down on him effortlessly. Every thrust massaged his thick shaft between your velvety walls. It never took much to make you cum when you were in this space.

He tilts his head down and steals your lips off his neck, connecting them with his own. Amidst the kiss, he feels your hips grinding forward a bit in an attempt to reciprocate his thrusts.

“So cute, princess,” he smiles against your lips.

You merely whimper in response and lean in for more kisses. He indulges you before pulling back and looking into your glazed eyes.

“You gonna cum soon?” he grunts.

“Yeah, daddy,” you whimper. Whines bubble from your lips at a higher frequency now and he ups his thrusts to match.

“Gotta use your manners first, babydoll. I know I’ve taught you how to ask for what you want,” he tells you.

A strangled breath comes from you and your eyes screw shut. You wanted to let it all go, but right now to your little mind, being a good girl was more important than fleeting pleasure.

“Can I please - mm - Can I finish, daddy? Pretty please?’ you ask, lips jutting out into a small pout.

He grins and squeezes your legs gently. “Perfect, angel. So polite,” he praises, “Yes, you can finish.”

“Thank you, daddy,” you whimper quickly before your back arches off his chest and you cum. You become impossibly tighter around his cock, and his moan accompanies yours as you gush around his length.

His arms fully support your weight as you lose yourself in the throes of release. He fucks up into you deep enough to hit the switch that keeps you a babbling, squirming mess against him. And now that he knows you’re over the edge and feeling good, he can let go himself. He feels the tightness of an impending orgasm and lets it snap.

He cums inside you, warm ropes of cum filling your insides. He knew you always craved that ultimate connection, that absolute claim on your body when you were feeling like this. So he provides that for you and drains himself in your cunt.

You start coming down from your high, melting back against his chest. His arms finally put your legs down and allow you to rest on his lap. He encircles them around you and holds you close while he peppers kisses on your cheek. His cock stays buried inside you. You needed a slow pull out, nothing jarring or sudden.

“Did that feel good, baby? Is your headache all gone?” he asks softly.

“Yeah,” you respond, “Feel a lot better.”

He smiles at the tender tone your voice takes on. Your eyes were drooping a bit too.

“Daddy always makes it better, yeah?” he asks.

You nod and smile, nestling your face against his neck.

“I think daddy’s gonna clean you up now and then put you down for a nap,” he says while rubbing the small of your back.

You nod again. He slowly pulls out of you and turns your body so he can scoop you up against his chest and stand with you in his arms. You nuzzle his neck before resting your head on his shoulder.

“Love you, daddy,” you murmur.

“Love you too, baby.”

[fafnir19]

Desperate Gamble

Lewis ran his hand through his unkempt, long blond hair, the weight of desperation settling in his tired eyes. He had lost his job, and the mountain of unpaid bills loomed over him like a dark cloud. Determined to turn his luck around, he made his way to the casino, hoping for a miracle. As he settled in front of the slot machines, he felt a glimmer of hope dwindling away with each spin of the reels.

Empty pockets and desperation drove him deeper into despair. That's when he caught the gaze of a sharply dressed man, Natas. "You look like you could use a win," Natas said, his voice smooth as silk. Lewis forced a weary smile. "I've already lost everything. It's too late for me." But Natas offered him a lifeline, a handful of chips to try his luck at roulette. "Keep the winnings for yourself. But if luck turns, I get to change something about you," Natas proposed, a smirk playing on his lips.

Desperation mixed with curiosity, Lewis accepted the chips and moved to the roulette table, filled with apprehension about Natas' vague terms. As the wheel spun, a spark of hope flickered in Lewis' eyes. He won the first two rounds, his spirits lifted. Yet, as the wheel stopped on the wrong number, Natas intervened. Lewis' long hair vanished, replaced by a neat faded cut.

His reflection showed a stranger in the mirror, but the thrill of victory outweighed his unease. Natas commented, "You look a little more well-groomed now," as Lewis racked up more wins. However, as luck ebbed and flowed, Lewis lost another round, and Natas changed his clothes, transforming his casual t-shirt into a crisp, unbuttoned shirt.

"Much better," Natas remarked, a glint of amusement in his eyes. With each victory, Lewis felt a new surge of hope, until the next loss resulted in a drastic change. His entire body morphed, becoming younger and more athletic.

Natas observed, "What a handsome devil you are now." Despite his unease about Natas' unpredictable alterations, the thought of erasing his debts fueled Lewis' resolve. He played on, ignoring the nagging fear brewing within him. Then with another loss, Lewis was taken aback to find a curly brown hair sprouting on his scalp. It was an odd change, but he found himself oddly comforted by the familiarity of his hair quirks. Another loss besieged him, and with it came a sudden eruption of beard hair that covered him like an untamed wilderness.

He found some semblance of peace and was convinced that Natas had run out of new ideas and a smile tugged at his lips. After all, what more could Natas possibly change about him? A curly hair and a beard, he thought wryly. It seemed frivolous and, frankly, amusing. As he continued his winning streak, a glimmer of hope danced in his eyes. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could finally clear his suffocating debts. However, the relentless whims of fate had other plans and Natas was far from done with his cruel game.

The next loss swiftly changed Lewis' appearance once again. This time, he found himself clad in a tuxedo, the sharp lines and tailored precision a far cry from the chaotic jumble of curly hair that had covered his sculp moments before.

Natas remarked: "You're more of a classic type. The tuxedo and the buzz cut suits you,"

And with the next loss, the tailored tuxedo morphed into a classic tailcoat. The beard was gone, replaced by the clean lines of the tailcoat, disturbingly polished and refined.

Natas' smug satisfaction was palpable as he remarked, "You look like a sophisticated servant in a tailcoat. I like that!” His eyes glittered with a mocking expression that betrayed unspeakable amusement. It felt like being stripped of an armor that had been forged from sheer desperation. It was a strange spectacle, Lewis mused, as the weight of his debts and Natas' twisted game bore down on him. The classic tailcoat now clung to him like a haunting specter of the changes that had befallen him. He felt like a marionette, herded along by the whims of an unseen force, the fabric clinging close like a whisper from a forgotten time.

Euphoria clawed at Lewis as the stakes rose. He was close to ridding himself of his debts, the  question of what Natas might alter next became a distant thought. As the wheel slowed to a stop, Lewis lost once more, and Natas' next change left him reeling. A sharp pain seared through Lewis, and in an instant, he was circumcised. Natas' chilling words pierced through Lewis, "You shouldn't hide anything from me, not even your glans under your foreskin." Shaken to the core, Lewis struggled with mounting terror, but the specter of his debts loomed larger. Pushing his fear down, he steeled himself to continue, knowing he was only a few wins away from financial freedom.

However, this time, the ball landed on the wrong number, and Natas' eyes twinkled with a devious delight. Lewis's pulse quickened, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach as he awaited the next change. But nothing happened. Confusion etched lines into his forehead as he turned to Natas. "Why... why didn't you change anything?" Natas' grin widened as he leaned in, his voice dripping with wicked amusement. "Ah, my dear Lewis, sometimes the greatest changes are not physical but rather... internal." Lewis's gaze hardened with a flicker of trepidation as he absorbed Natas' words. "What do you mean, internal?" Natas' eyes gleamed with a sinister glint as he began to explain. "You see, my friend, this time I didn't change your appearance. Instead, I made a change to your very essence, your soul, your... personality." An icy jolt of fear shot through Lewis' veins. His breath caught in his chest as the gravity of Natas' words sank in. "What did you do to me?" Natas let out a throaty chuckle, relishing in Lewis' disconcerted state. "You are now my loyal servant, my dear Lewis," Natas said, savoring every word. "And from now on, you shall pronounce my name the right way round. I am Satan, and you are Siwel."

Lewis' heart thundered in his chest, and a chill crept down his spine. The weight of Natas's proclamation shattered Lewis' hopes and imprisoned him in an unfathomable terror. "No, this can't be happening. I won't be... Siwel." Lewis’ mouth twisted into a desperate plea. "Please, don't do this. I beg you," he implored, his voice laced with desperation. "There must be an alternate path. I can't be tethered to this... this servitude." Satan smirked, an eerie satisfaction twisting his features. "But where has your freedom led you, Siwel? Bereft of purpose, shackled by debts. Your existence is an aimless spiral." Lewis grappled with the turmoil in his heart, the stinging tendrils of despair clawing at his resolve. "I beg of you, grant me a second chance. Release me from this servitude," he pleaded, his voice wrought with anguish. Satan's eyes glittered with malevolent amusement, but he could sense the desperation in Lewis' words. "Very well, a gamble then," Satan proposed, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "The next round will be the decisive one. If you win, you will be free to leave and return to your former self. However, if you lose, you will become my servant in every sense, including a change in your sexual orientation." Lewis' stomach twisted in knots, and a conflict raged within him. As the wheel spun, Lewi's thoughts whirled with indecision. His old life had been marred by despair and debt, while his new existence under Satan's tyranny offered a semblance of purpose, albeit twisted and vile. The thought of giving in to Satan's dark whims filled him with fear, but the prospect of returning to his old life was also grim. A daring impulse seized Lewis, and as the ball spiraled in the roulette wheel, he delved into the depths of his tumultuous mind. Surrendering to the chaos within, he let the ball roll and just as it neared a stop, he reached out and grabbed the ball and said with a cocky grin, "I think I've lost now!"

Satan's eyes flashed with dark glee, a cruel satisfaction washing over his features. "You seem to like balls," he remarked, reveling in Siwel's new fate. "From now on, you shall be a croupier in the casino, seducing people into gambling and addiction. And you'll offer your own balls for play, for both men and women alike." Siwel got horny by the thought that strangers play with his balls and he felt the shackles of his former self disintegrate with a  sensation of numb respite. "Yes, Satan," he murmured, inundated by a tide of delectable submission. "Thank you for this...refined purpose."

The sultry chuckle of Satan echoed through the dimly lit casino, sending a shiver of anticipation down Siwel's spine. The once-desperate man had transformed into a willing participant in Satan's twisted game, his heart pounding with a newfound exhilaration. As he stood before his master, a strange fusion of euphoria and apprehension coursed through him. "Satan, I'm grateful for the purpose you've bestowed upon me," Siwel began, his voice tinged with a mixture of fervor and trepidation. "I am eager to embrace my role as a croupier and seduce patrons into the vices of gambling and addiction." Satan's eyes glimmered with malevolent satisfaction. "Ah, Siwel, you understand the extent of your newfound purpose. Your willingness to indulge the desires of others will pave the way for their descent into the depths of temptation." Siwel's gaze drifted to the opulent surroundings of the casino, a haven for both decadence and despair. "I shall become the harbinger of their vices, an instrument of allure and enticement to beckon them further into the labyrinth of their own desires." Satan's lips curled into a sinister smile. "And do not forget, my devoted servant, that you offer your own allure as well. Your charismatic appeal will entice both men and women, binding them to the tantalizing allure of the game." Siwel's heart quickened at the prospect, a strange sense of purpose intertwining with his impending subservience. "I am ready to embrace this role wholeheartedly. Through temptation and allure, I shall ensnare their souls, binding them to the fate that I now willingly serve."

Days turned into endless nights, and Siwel was consumed by the intoxicating waltz of temptation and seduction. As he drifted through the hallowed halls of the casino, he became the embodiment of desire itself, a siren beckoning unwitting patrons into a turbulent sea of addiction and longing. One fateful eve, as the chimes of the roulette wheel reverberated through the casino, Satan's piercing gaze met Siwel's as the master of temptation approached his devoted servant. "Siwel, your dedication to the seductive arts has not gone unnoticed," Satan purred, his voice dripping with malevolent allure. "Your willingness to draw others into the enthralling web of temptation shall serve as a testament to your newfound devotion." Siwel's pulse quickened with a strange mixture of complicity and longing. "I embrace this role with every fiber of my being, eager to ensnare those who dare to test the boundaries of their desires." As the nights bled into each other, Siwel's spirit was consumed by the inferno of his newfound allure, a passion burgeoning within him that blurred the line between devotion and subservience.

On a moonlit night, amid the haunting melody of the casino's symphony, Satan approached Siwel once more. "Do you realize, Siwel, that to me, you are little more than a slot machine—an object to indulge the desires of those who dare to seek out their temptations."

Siwel's lips curved into a smile, a strange sense of excitement blossoming in his heart. "You have objectified me, my master, and yet, I have found a purpose in your bewitching design. Through the allure of temptation, I have become a vassal to the desires of those who revel in the tapestry of their vices." Satan's eyes gleamed with dark satisfaction as he beheld his devoted servant. "Your unwavering submission to the art of temptation is a testament to the mastery of your newfound purpose. Embrace the allure that envelops you, Siwel, and surrender to the symphony of enticement that binds you to the very essence of their desires." Lewis has become a living embodiment of his sinister master's command: An object of indomitable attraction, subservience and desire.

[changingplumbob]

A Party To Die For Templates: SFS

So I may have got a tad overexcited about the Halloween CAS Challenge created by @la-llama-sims, and I made templates for every prompt. I wanted to share them on the off chance someone wanted to also do the challenge but maybe didn't have time to do much other than screenshots.

Tutorial below on how to make your own cards using the templates if you are unfamiliar with photo software, all you need is the template and a screenshot of your sim! Very little technical skill required to so feel free to jump in for Simblreen (the month of October on simblr). Remember to go to the original creator post to check out the prompts and the hashtag given for creations is #LLPTDF. Hope to see some of your creations next month, keep them for the spooky season 🎃👻🦇

Strap in and follow along as I make Glenn here (he won't do the spellcaster prompt for Simblreen, it's dress up after all, but it makes sense for a demo)

Step one: Grab the zipped folder of templates on SFS HERE. Unzip the folder and put it somewhere easy to find in your documents, I have a tumblr specific folder my templates are normally sorted in.

Step two: Open your photo editing program of choice. I use paint.net which is old but for this demonstration I will use Photopea, the online free alternative to adobe. You will see the screen below

Step three: Click "Open From Computer" right in the middle under the main title. Find the screenshot you have taken that you would like to use and open it. Now the hole in my template is 744x991 but you can make it slightly bigger if you don't want to fuss as much with lining things up exactly. To resize image from the top bar (Image -> Image Size) We're going to use the crop tool when we have our picture.

Step four: Pull on the squares at the edges to change the size. If you need click View in the top bar and you can zoom in to allow finer selecting. When you have the right size click the tick and copy the image. Keyboard shortcuts are Ctrl+A to select all, then Ctrl+C to copy.

Step five: Open the template you want to use (File -> Open, from the top bar). Add a new layer using either the top bar (Layer -> New -> Layer) or the icons on the bottom right.

Step six: With the new layer selected paste the image, Ctrl+V.

Step seven: On the right of the screen you'll be able to see layer order. Drag the layer with your sim underneath the background layer. This is what will let you slot in your picture.

Step eight: Finishing touches! Unless you are super duper lucky your sim won't appear in the exact right place, you'll have to move them around using the move tool. For precision you'll need to zoom in and move your field of vision using the hand tool.

You'll know it's in the right place when you can no longer see any of the negative space behind it. I like to check both corners to make sure I've got it. This is where having a sim image slightly larger will make it easier.

If you like you can finish now. From the top bar File -> Export as -> PNG or JPG. The picture will save to your downloads folder. If you want to add your own text, keep reading, as I've left space at the bottom for your username, the sim name, and a profile pic or other logo.

Step nine: From the bar on the right select the large T to add some text, it will automatically spawn in a new layer. Scroll through text options and find one you like (the text style I used isn't in photopea so we will find another). Depending on the type of text you will likely need to play around with the size as well.

Step ten: Start typing. When you're done you can highlight what you have written and use that size box to adjust how big the text is. Select the move tool from the right to move your text where you want it. Repeat step nine if you want text on the other side. I've chosen to put my username on one side, and my sim's name on the other.

Step eleven: Logo time. Open a pre shrunk logo (I scaled my pride plumbobs down to 125x125) and copy. Back on the template add a new layer then paste your image (for some reason I had to copy twice before it would do the right thing, I don't have an explanation sorry). Then using the move tool and the hand tool get your image where you want it.

From the top bar File -> Export as -> PNG or JPG. Again it will have saved to your downloads folder.

Voila, we have a Glenn card! Hopefully you have a your sim card. I spent hours doing up all the templates so feel free to fill them with your sims for the challenge. All I ask is that you don't claim templates as your own work or shove them behind a paywall because rude and the whole premise of Simblreen is free treats! Obviously you do NOT need the templates to participate in the challenge, the cards are just how I'll be presenting mine. Like CAS challenges the possibilities are most often only limited by your imagination.

[eirianerisdar]

Hiiiii I’ve only just seen it but if youre still doing the directors commentary thing I was gonna ask about Icarus? :) and the ⭐️ for whatever part you choose

(and just wanted to say your writing is so beautiful, I’m loving reading it so much thank you for sharing <3)

Oh ye I'm going to go on an absolute rant about Brocedes

An excerpt from chapter 30 of Icarus, when Lewis has just strained his newly regrown wings on a highly unadvised first flight after having grown out his primaries again for the first time in sixteen years, and runs into Nico by chance on an old clifftop haunt of theirs above Monaco. It's purely mutual pining in that uniquely Brocedes way

For the uninitiated, Icarus is an F1 wingfic that covers most of the grid, with the theme of wing trimming as a representation of unhealthy practices in motorsport forced upon drivers.

=====

A shape appears out of the rising sun, brown-white sparrowhawk feathers silhouetted against the dawn.

Unlike Lewis’s haphazard landing a minute earlier, Nico’s is elegant and precise; he comes out of his dive twisting in a perfect diagonal to the clifftop, one wingtip brushing the ground and the other pointed towards the sun, and lands on silent feet. He is wearing a tailored flight-suit that fits him as well as his race suit used to; the small backpack slotted between his wings has a molded plastic shell for better aerodynamics.

Nico folds his wings, and stares.

“Lewis?” he says, shocked. “What are you doing here?”

Lewis is suddenly all-too aware of the dirt ground into his skin, smeared over his t-shirt and ratty running sweats. His wings are caked with sand and grime from his less-than perfect landings; his palms are smarting with a dozen shallow cuts from hauling himself back up onto the clifftop.

He finds his voice. “What are you doing here?”

It comes out more accusing than Lewis intended. Nico’s face closes; his sparrowhawk wings flatten against his back.

“I come here often,” he says. “I fly up here every morning.”

Lewis doesn’t miss the implication that he is the intruder here, not Nico.

Lewis doesn’t know why that hurts so much. Maybe because he shouldn’t feel so out of place here, in this little sanctuary tucked against the Monaco cliffs where he and Nico had watched the sun rise and set so many times.

Nico ventures closer. His eyes are on Lewis’s wings. “You really did it,” he says oddly. “You grew out your wings.”

Lewis sets his jaw, raises his chin. “Yeah,” he says challengingly. “What about it?”

Nico flinches and looks away. His chest rises and falls faster than usual.

It would seem that even after all this time, Lewis still knows how to get a rise out of Nico. Lewis should feel vindicated, but he doesn’t. Something about the way Nico is holding his wings makes Lewis feel sick.

Nico crosses over to a flat-topped rock a careful distance away and sits. The two of them face the sunrise like they have done so many times years ago. The wind that ruffles both their feathers brings with it the scent of the sea.

Lewis closes his eyes. The sun sears his skin, turns the backs of his eyelids orange-yellow. There is so much he wants to say, but he doesn’t know where to begin. He could start at Abu Dhabi, at that awful Sky interview. He could go back to 2021, when he had finally admitted to himself and to the press that he could have been a better teammate to Nico.

He could go back to Barcelona 2016; the ache in his shabby wings in the garage, and the brief moment of blessed, cool relief when Nico had brushed a hand through Lewis’s wing.

It was the last time either of them had touched each other’s wings. Their crash and DNF at Barcelona had snapped the last threads that held them together as flock.

Lewis waits for Nico to say something, but Nico stays silent. It stings.

Lewis sneaks a glance at his former flock, finds Nico already looking at him – not at his dirt-smeared face or messy braids, but at his wing plumes, pooled carelessly in the dust at the base of the rock he is seated on.

In the dawn light, Nico’s clean, well-brushed feathers are painted in peach and ochre. Lewis bristles, waits for Nico to make an unsavoury comment.

But Nico just clasps his hands together in his lap, tight enough that the knuckles go pale. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“Your wing plumes are longer than I remember,” he says hoarsely.

Oh. Lewis looks down at them, at his draped double-cloak of gold, white, and maroon.

“Yeah,” he says. A gust of wind blows dirt over the end of one of his plumes; he nudges it carelessly with the toe of his trainer, but only succeeds in matting the feather ends with even more dirt.

Nico makes an abortive motion towards Lewis.

Lewis looks at him sharply, watches Nico fold his hands into fists on his knees. Nico’s face is pinched.

Lewis breathes through the bitterness. He knows he is intruding on Nico’s space by being here. It’s just that a part of him thought that he would still have a place here, where they had shared so many happy memories.

He can’t even leave; his wings still hurt too much to chance anything other than a glide.

Nico’s feathers rustle as he stands. “I’m going to head back,” he says quietly. “You coming?”

Lewis shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “I’m going to sit a while longer.”

The flight muscles of his right wing ache dully; he shakes it out carefully, fighting a wince.

Nico is suddenly standing within arm’s reach, blocking out the sun. “Your wing,” he says, frowning. “You’ve got flyer’s cramp.”

“It’ll pass,” Lewis snaps, folding his wing back against his spine even though that makes it hurt worse. “I’ve got it handled.”

“You shouldn’t fly back alone,” Nico says seriously. “Come on, let’s go. I’ll even let you get there first.”

Lewis tenses at the implication. He hates competition not treating him seriously – Nico most of all.

“I’m fine,” he says testily. “It’s just the thermals. I rode them up, I’ll find a way between them to glide back down again. I’ll manage.”

“The thermals?” Nico frowns over his shoulder at the dizzying drop down towards the sea. “Where did you fly here from?”

Lewis works his jaw. “The beach,” he says.

Nico turns on him instantly. “The beach?” he exclaims. “Are you fucking – you can’t have unsheathed your feathers more than a few days ago!”

Lewis doesn’t reply, but Nico reads him anyway.

“Oh my God,” Nico stares. “It hasn’t even been a few days, has it? This is your first fucking flight.”

Lewis jerks his chin. “What about it?”

Nico puts his face in his hands. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Are you insane? Who flies up a cliff for their first flight in sixteen years? Do you want to die?”

Lewis hates to admit it, but laying it out like that puts it into perspective. He isn’t usually one to take such risks. He let his hunger for freedom override his common sense.

“That’s it,” Nico says. He jerks his head towards the cliff edge. “I’m making sure you get back without killing yourself. Let’s go.”

Lewis looks at the edge of the cliff. The wind has picked up even more now that the sun has fully risen; bits of rock and dirt swirl in the wind to tumble off the lip.

He doesn’t want to name the feeling that roots him in place.

Lewis Hamilton has never been one to admit fear.

Nico strides over to the cliff edge, draws a sharp line in the dirt with the toe of his flight boot. “Come on,” he snaps. “I’m not leaving unless you’re with me.”

Something about that phrase twists Lewis’s stomach, uncovers a bitter wound.

Because Nico had left. He’d left Lewis to race on alone.

“What is it?” Nico says. “Is your wing still cramping?”

Lewis shifts his wings. “No.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Lewis opens his mouth, closes it again. Looks away.

If there’s anything he hates most in the world, it’s looking weak in front of Nico Rosberg.

“I don’t think I can make it,” he admits.

Nico stills. “What?”

Lewis breathes a bitter laugh. “I know what it sounds like,” he says, looking down at his dirt-splattered wing plumes. “But I’m gonna be honest with you, man. I don’t think I can make it.”

Nico doesn’t respond. He looks like a statue stood on the cliff edge, his golden hair a halo around his head, his wings of carven marble.

Lewis runs his scraped palms together. “I don’t know the thermals,” he says, swallowing the shame. “They’re so different from what I remember. I keep getting pushed higher. My flight muscles aren’t strong enough to fight my way out if I get caught in one.” He gestures at himself, at the dirt ground into his wings, his clothes. “I barely made it out of the clouds and back here.”

Silence, save for the cry of gulls in the harbour below and the whistling wind.

Flight boots stomp against dirt and rock as Nico stalks over, grabs Lewis by the collar, and shakes him, hard.

Lewis’s hands come up automatically, but Nico has already let go. Lewis watches as Nico turns in a flare of sparrowhawk feathers to pace the dirt of the clifftop.

Nico snaps to a halt, glares down at Lewis. “I can’t fucking believe what I’m hearing,” he hisses. “You’re not some damsel in distress. You’re Lewis fucking Hamilton.”

Lewis stares up at Nico’s furious face. This isn’t what he expected at all.

“Lewis Hamilton doesn’t back down from a fight,” Nico snarls. “What the fuck happened to you? You always said you could do anything as long as you pushed hard enough. So get up. Push.”

Lewis bristles. “Easy for you to say,” he spits. “You’ve had six years to learn the air patterns and train up your wings. Don’t pretend we’re on equal footing.”

Nico’s face whitens. For a moment Lewis thinks Nico will punch him; but Nico only exhales and looks over his shoulder at the cliff edge.

“It’s not as complicated than it looks,” he says abruptly. “It’s just that new building down where the road splits, and that paved road cutting through the trees there. It breaks up the current that used to flow down from–”

“Thanks, Nico,” Lewis says sarcastically. “I’m sure that’ll be really helpful when I’m trying to navigate something I can’t see.”

“Just–” Nico closes his eyes briefly. His voice softens. “Just stay on my wing,” he says quietly. “I’ll guide you down.”

Lewis looks at the cliff edge. He swallows.

Nico’s eyes are a clear, intense blue. “I won’t leave you,” he says. “I promise.”

Like that fucking meant anything the last time you said it, Lewis thinks. Some of his thoughts must show on his face, because Nico’s eyes shutter.

Lewis grits his teeth. He feels like an arse.

He feels the wind run through his still-aching wings. “What if I fall?”

Nico’s face hardens. He looks for a moment like he did when he met Lewis’s eyes across the garage as they got into their cars in Abu Dhabi 2016. It is a look that says try me, and I will prove you wrong.

“Then I’ll fucking catch you,” he spits.

The promise settles in Lewis’s bones.

Nico’s anger and determination is something Lewis knows too well. This, he can trust.

Nico’s straightens. The sun suffuses his hair, outlines his wings with gold. He holds out a hand to Lewis.

“Come on,” he says. “We’ve got this. Clear air all the way down.”

Lewis looks at Nico’s hand before him – the familiar grooves of his palm, the finger-webs turned pink in the sun. The hand that Lewis had once thought nothing of holding in his own.

He reaches up, and takes it.

======

Director's Cut:

I had this scene planned very early; I held on to it for a solid four months before the plot progressed to the point that this happened. The thing I most wanted to get across in this scene, the first proper scene where Lewis and Nico are properly speaking face-to-face instead of just pining, is just how much they both care about each other even if it all comes out toxic.

The way I planned this conversation is that every single thing that comes out of Nico and Lewis's mouths is misinterpreted as hostile. Even body language is misinterpreted.

A few examples:

1. When Nico says, “I come here often. I fly up here every morning," he means I often return here, to this place of good memories with you, because I miss you.

Lewis takes this to mean that Nico thinks that Lewis is in his space, and that Lewis doesn't have a right to this shared space they used to have as teenagers.

2. Nico ventures closer. His eyes are on Lewis’s wings. “You really did it,” he says oddly. “You grew out your wings.”

Lewis sets his jaw, raises his chin. “Yeah,” he says challengingly. “What about it?”

Nico flinches and looks away. His chest rises and falls faster than usual.

It would seem that even after all this time, Lewis still knows how to get a rise out of Nico. Lewis should feel vindicated, but he doesn’t. Something about the way Nico is holding his wings makes Lewis feel sick.

Nico's trying to find some common ground here. He never thought Lewis would give up speed to regrow his wings. Nico had been harbouring hope that maybe they'd be able to heal if both of them weren't dead-focused on racing anymore; but Lewis is so used to Nico using everything as an insult he takes it badly.

But he still cares about Nico enough that he can tell when he's gone too far. Nico at this point in the story has gone through a full wing crisis because of Lewis, and Lewis isn't aware of it.

3. But Nico just clasps his hands together in his lap, tight enough that the knuckles go pale. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“Your wing plumes are longer than I remember,” he says hoarsely.

Oh. Lewis looks down at them, at his draped double-cloak of gold, white, and maroon.

“Yeah,” he says. A gust of wind blows dirt over the end of one of his plumes; he nudges it carelessly with the toe of his trainer, but only succeeds in matting the feather ends with even more dirt.

Nico makes an abortive motion towards Lewis.Lewis looks at him sharply, watches Nico fold his hands into fists on his knees. Nico’s face is pinched.

Lewis isn't used to having full-grown bird-of-paradise plumes. He nudges them with his foot because to him they're just his feathers; he'll go and clean them later. for Nico, he's positively screaming to preen Lewis's wings. He's sitting there going insane with yearning while Lewis mats his feathers in dirt.

4. Nico turns on him instantly. “The beach?” he exclaims. “Are you fucking – you can’t have unsheathed your feathers more than a few days ago!”

When Nico finds out Lewis has got flyer's cramp and that Lewis isn't sure if he can make it back home without falling, he defaults to anger. He's actually furious because he's terrified that Lewis could have fallen to his death, but Nico, like Lewis, defaults to anger to mask his fear. Lewis does the same.

5. Flight boots stomp against dirt and rock as Nico stalks over, grabs Lewis by the collar, and shakes him, hard.

Lewis’s hands come up automatically, but Nico has already let go. Lewis watches as Nico turns in a flare of sparrowhawk feathers to pace the dirt of the clifftop.

Nico snaps to a halt, glares down at Lewis. “I can’t fucking believe what I’m hearing,” he hisses. “You’re not some damsel in distress. You’re Lewis fucking Hamilton.”

Lewis stares up at Nico’s furious face. This isn’t what he expected at all.

“Lewis Hamilton doesn’t back down from a fight,” Nico snarls. “What the fuck happened to you? You always said you could do anything as long as you pushed hard enough. So get up. Push.”

This is something integral to Nico Rosberg: he has absolute faith that Lewis Hamilton will back down for nothing. That no matter what the world throws at him, Lewis Hamilton will push. All Nico's anxiety about Lewis still hating him or overstepping and snapping this fragile connection that's forming evaporates because this is Lewis fucking Hamilton who Nico knows through and through and Nico will die before he lets Lewis be anyone other than himself.

6. He feels the wind run through his still-aching wings. “What if I fall?”

Nico’s face hardens. He looks for a moment like he did when he met Lewis’s eyes across the garage as they got into their cars in Abu Dhabi 2016. It is a look that says try me, and I will prove you wrong.

“Then I’ll fucking catch you,” he spits.

The promise settles in Lewis’s bones.

Nico’s anger and determination is something Lewis knows too well. This, he can trust.

This is Nico saying I'm with you until the end of the line. It's a declaration of if you fall I will fall with you. Lewis doesn't fully get the emotion behind it yet - there's still too much ingrained hurt there - but he can see Nico's anger and determination. The same anger and determination that allowed Nico to beat him in 2016. This, he can trust.

7. Nico straightens. The sun suffuses his hair, outlines his wings with gold. He holds out a hand to Lewis.

“Come on,” he says. “We’ve got this. Clear air all the way down.”

Lewis looks at Nico’s hand before him – the familiar grooves of his palm, the finger-webs turned pink in the sun. The hand that Lewis had once thought nothing of holding in his own.

He reaches up, and takes it.

I swear I had this section planned out almost word-for-word for four months. The image of Nico with his blond hair and sparrowhawk wings offering a hand to Lewis, offering to parlay, offering to help. It's the first time neither of them have been fully alone. It's the first moment that shows there might be a possibility of healing.

Clear air. Flying in formation, like they used to drive in formation on victory laps. Nico is Lewis's guide back to flight and freedom. They'll push each other higher, like they did when they raced each other.

Lewis lets go of his hurt and bitterness for the first time this whole conversation. He lets himself trust again. He reaches up and takes Nico's hand.

I wanted above all to show how toxic and hurt their dynamic was, but how enmeshed it was - how if both of them decided to take a little step forwards, healing was possible.

It's just the first little step towards the healing we've been seeing in the rest of the fic.

You can read more Icarus here.

Send me an ask with a scene or set of lines from any of my fics and I'll give you a director's commentary! Or, send in a ⭐star⭐ to have me select a section I've been dying to talk about!

[ozarkthedog]

Happy birthday Ozzie, and congratulations on your follower milestone!!! You beautiful bean, I'm so glad this hellsite put us in each others' paths.

📝 For location-based smut prompt, Tim Rockford and dealer's choice of

public -8 inside one muses’s office. OR public 9 - inside a third party’s office they shouldn’t have access to. 

Just need this man to get freaky with me in an office setting is what I'm saying because look at him:

😭 i’m thankful everyday that we’ve gotten so close! here’s my token of gratitude. 😘💙

18+ mdni. Tim Rockford x f!reader. oral sex (fem receiving). public but private setting — office. special guest.

This is so wrong. 

It was bad enough that Tim was your superior and that you'd been sneaking around for the last month, fucking each other whenever he had a few moments of free time, but using a random co-worker's office? That was flat out stupid. 

Tim drops to his knees in the small room, making quick work of your skirt and hooking one of your legs over his leather holster encased shoulder.

He breathes in deep as he presses the lower half of his jaw against your panty clad mound. "Been thinkin' about this sweet pussy all day." He holds your weary gaze as he slots the thin material to the side and latches his lips around your clit.

Your fingers card through his hair, tugging just so to make him groan into your slick heat. His tongue dances along your slit, dipping between your folds, earning him soft hisses and mewls from your gasping lips.

This is sure to blow up in your faces, but as Tim slides two thick fingers into your dripping core and rubs expertly against your slick walls, you couldn't care less.

"Shit- you're fuckin' soaked." Tim groans as your velvet walls mold to the shape of his girthy digits.

Your spine bows against the corkboard nailed to the wall; it's pinned with a precise diary of information: crime scene photos, newspaper clippings, and various stake-out notes. The small plastic tac heads dig into your skin as Tim sucks your clit into his mouth and vibrates the little button with a deep groan.

Your chest heaves under your blouse as the pleasure steadily mounts. Your hips move on their own, grinding against Tim's stubble and tongue. Brute hands circle your hips, keeping you safe and balanced as your peak draws closer.

He leans back on his heels and stares up at you. His cheeks are flushed a desert pink, and his lips glisten under the dim light as he works you closer and closer to the edge.

"Come on my tongue. Wanna taste you." Tim husks before diving back into your cunt with a feral energy you'd only come to know since being with him.

Your eyes flutter closed as the pleasure envelopes you, drowning all your senses. Had your eyes been open, you would've seen the shadowy figure slink through the door just as you were starting to come.

A heavy wave of arousal coats Tim's tongue as he pushes it further into your drenched hole. He grunts at your taste, greedily drinking you down and licking every creamy drop from your swollen cunt as you bite back the wanton moans that threaten to slip from your lips. 

Tremors rake your body as you catch your breath and come back into your body. The foreign, bitter smell of smoke perks your senses. Your heart slams into your throat as a red ember glows from a dark corner of the room. 

"You put on quite a show, Gatita." A deep voice praises from the black abyss. 

Tim moves lightning fast, spinning on the spot and shielding your body from the unknown figure.

Javier Pena steps into the light. Your co-worker and whose office you now had the pleasure of corrupting. 

He stalks toward his desk with a glint in his eye, pinning you and Tim to the floor as he retrieves a folder that's left on top of a mess of papers.

The men exchange silent words while Javier takes a long drag from his cigarette. Tim relaxes, his broad shoulders slightly sagging once he realizes the threat is neutralized. Javier smirked at your wide eyes while he exhaled a lungful of smoke toward the ceiling.

"You should lock the door next time," Javier suggests as he moves to leave. He hesitates, hand perched on the shiny, brass knob before looking over his shoulder. "Unless you're looking for a third person to join." 

Ozzie’s 11k birthday sleepover

[diazsdimples]

Tease Tidbit Tuesday!

Wasn't initially going to do this cause I'm up north with my husband while he gets surgery but then I decided fuck him! He'll survive without me for a second. (for legal reasons, I am joking)

This is another Musican AU snippet, set just before the last snippet and is just before their first kiss

Tagged by @thewolvesof1998 @hippolotamus thanks friends!

It's just as Eddie checks his watch, realising the time, that Buck suggests something. He’s holding his cello out in front of him by the neck, letting it twirl around on it’s spike like some kind of wooden ballerina and his eyes suddenly light up. Eddie can almost see the lightbulb flicker on in his brain.

“Hey, do you wanna try playing it? I can teach you?”

Eddie looks at it cautiously. “Are you sure? I won’t break it?”

Buck waves a hand dismissively. “Nah, they’re sturdy. Go on, I’ll show you what to do.”

Eddie sets his horn down and apprehensively takes the cello from Buck. It feels weird, too big and clunky for his liking. Buck gets up from his chair and kneels in front of Eddie.

“Spike’s too long for you” he mumbles as he fiddles with a knob at the base of the cello. Suddenly the instrument is shooting downwards and Eddie clamps his legs together to stop it from hitting the ground. “Ah, much better” Buck says, and he tightens the knob. The cello slots comfortably between Eddie’s legs and he lets the body rest against his chest, the scroll and tuning pegs lightly brushing his ear.

Buck hands him the bow and Eddie awkwardly closes his fist around it. It doesn’t look right, and Eddie knows he’s not holding it properly but he’s got no clue what else to do.

Buck lets out a small chuckle as he glances at Eddie’s grip and he moves again so he’s standing behind Eddie, leaning over his shoulder. “Here, let me”.

Suddenly, Buck’s hand is enveloping Eddie’s and he’s tugging at Eddie’s fingers, moving them into position. His hand is warm and firm as he guides Eddie’s fingers into the correct position. Eddie’s thumb is now tucked between the hair of the bow and the wood and his other fingers are curled around what he now knows is called the frog. Buck smooths Eddie’s fingers down so he’s not gripping the bow so hard.

“You gotta let it balance between your thumb, pointer and middle fingers. The others are just for support” he says and Eddie can feel the rumble of his chest against his back as he talks.

Eddie swallows thickly. “I think I’ve got it” he croaks but Buck doesn’t remove his hand. Instead, he directs Eddie to bring the bow against the strings, reaching around behind Eddie to curl his left hand around the finger board. With gentle precision, Buck guides Eddie to draw the bow along the bottom string. A low, haunting note is drawn forth from the cello and Eddie shivers. Buck presses his finger down on the string and the note changes. It’s like a throb in Eddie’s chest, humming through his body and making him feel like his veins are full of warm honey. He can feel Buck’s breath against his neck as he continues to guide Eddie’s hand, both his arms effectively wrapped around Eddie. It’s one of the most intimate things that’s ever happened in Eddie’s life. Buck’s so close to him that he can smell his cologne. It’s musky and woody, reminding Eddie of a forest.

Buck’s lips brush delicately against the shell of Eddie’s ear as he whispers, “you’re a natural”. Eddie lets out a shaky laugh and he lets his hand slip from Buck’s grip, transferring the bow into Buck’s hand.

“I’ve got an excellent teacher” Eddie breathes. He twists around in the seat, vaguely noticing the way Buck’s nose brushes through his hair as he turns, and he faces Buck. His chin is tilted upwards so he can look into Buck’s eyes, and he sees that Buck’s pupils are blown wide, giving his eyes a dark, almost hungry look to them. Buck very gently reaches around Eddie and guides the cello to the ground, placing the bow on its side and Eddie never takes his eyes off Buck, maintaining eye contact the whole time. Buck straightens up and rests his hands on the back of Eddie’s chair. His knuckles brush Eddie’s shoulders and Eddie shivers once again.

“Maybe I need to come over and give you another lesson sometime” Buck’s voice is husky and his eyes flicker to Eddie’s lips and back up again, so fast that Eddie would have missed it if he wasn’t drinking in Buck’s facial expressions.

“I-I’d like that” Eddie’s voice is quiet, and he watches as Buck begins to lean forward, closing the distance between their heads. He can feel Buck’s breath ghosting across his face and he closes his eyes briefly, letting his head fall forward until he feels Buck’s forehead against his.

(no pressure) tagging @theotherbuckley @smilingbuckley @fruitandbubbles @eddiebabygirldiaz @fortheloveofbuddie @monsterrae1 @housewifebuck @disasterbuckdiaz @watchyourbuck @fionaswhvre @evanbegins @malewifediaz @callmenewbie @cal-daisies-and-briars @spagheddiediaz @incorrect9-1-1 @wildlife4life @daffi-990 @wikiangela @loserdiaz

[messycunt]

Floyd's flip floppy nature leads to him, harshly and without warning, lashing out at you physically one day.

Jade is all too used to picking up after his brothers discarded playthings.

just something quick I whipped up at 3 in the morning T-T

cw: Noncon, fingering, ntr(reader and floyd are still together as far as they are concerned), blood, and injury(intentionally left vague so the severity is up to you), ooc jade probably cuz i'm not good a characterization and I don't try to be, not proof read :P

 "He is likely looking for you as we speak I assume. must have calmed down some by now." Jade mused lips still glossy red from a mix of your combined saliva and fresh blood. "It would really be a shame if he were to come around looking for you to apologize only to find you in such a compromising position."

You lay in your boyfriend's brother's lap, in your boyfriend's brother's bed while gushing around your boyfriend's brother's fingers. Not that you're enjoying it all that much.

It was all a blur really. You didn't go out of your way looking for him, he just conveniently happened to be in the right place at the right time … too conveniently. BUT he offered to take you back to his room and help patch you up, how sweet! 

You should have passed it up and made your way back to your own room.

Not a single one of Jade's actions were carried out with intentions of helping you in any meaningful way(unless you count laving over your open and still furiously bleeding wounds as disinfecting them in some capacity). 

His thumb made quick and precise circles around your clit, your whole body felt too sore to even register the pleasure, still your cunt clenched and drooled around him. He's violating you and you love it, you have to, considering your dripping enough to leave a sizable stain on his sheets.

You could protest, kick and scream and all of that but you had no fight left in you. Instead you weakly pull at his blazer, only bringing the two of you closer. 

Not even considering the horrible physical state you're in a vague resemblance of a threat hung over your head as well. You weren't looking forward to a second pummeling in one day. 

Jade isn't planning to take it further than this is he? Maybe going along with what he wants would make him lose interest? Maybe he wants you to put up a fight?

Or, maybe you're just too tired to care.

"Oh I hope you aren't dozing off on me so soon" the sharp sound of his voice pulls you from your thoughts and startles you enough to snap your eyes open. 

Slender fingers slip out of abused depths, giving your opening a cheeky slap before slotting into his waiting mouth. He slurps at them with a dramatized hum and lowers his eyelids in bliss. He's fucking with you on purpose. 

Pulling his fingers out of his mouth only to stick them back inside of you he spoke in a soft voice that rumbled only slightly "I have much more planned for you tonight 'little shrimpy' I’m sure you'll love it"

You couldn't tell if you had cum 2 dozen times that night or none due to your frazzled nerves, but maybe that was for the better.

more

[daisychainsandbowties]

Mrs. Villaumbrosia cleaning out the beach house and just sending all Lilith’s notebooks to her professional address which Lilith is used to and not bothered by except there’s a graduate assistant who goes through all of it and digitizes all the data Lilith has kept since she was, what, 7? when she started really overcoming her writing difficulties. The GA compiles everything Lilith has; esp. roughly two decades of lumpfish data and emails Lilith a copy to approve for publication. Lilith’s only edit is to add Michael as a coauthor.

It starts with dozens of emails from her overeager grad student, taglines full of exclamation points, all caps, conga lines of commas ,,,,,,,LUMPFISH!!!!

Her mother sends it over in an old orange crate she found in the basement, and Lilith would have felt her hands shake if it had been her - and not Michael - who cracked the lid. If she saw how neatly her mother packed each notebook, adding wads of fabric to stop them from falling over.

Inside, also, are her father’s binoculars in their green leather case; old film and videotapes; an adult’s snorkeling mask that’s been cannibalized to fit a child’s head.

One of her old hoodies for stuffing, with a picture of a cartoon crab on the front. Tourist rubbish, given to her by a stall owner who saw her walking up off the beach in a t-shirt and shorts at the advent of a storm, shuddering from the chill and drenched in saltwater. He handed it to her, along with a can of Coca Cola he’d been saving to have with a cigarette after closing up the stall.

The notebooks are held shut with rubber bands so none of the loose pages escape. Her mother would have done this by hand.

But it’s not Lilith who finds this silent “i love you” hidden in an old crate, specially couriered from their old beach house. It’s her grad student, but the sight does at least arrest him.

(and Lilith won’t know this for another decade, but her mother was cleaning up the house to sell it. instead she puts it in Lilith's name. just… gives it to her, slots the keys into an envelope: to be delivered upon my death)

Michael describes how he shook sand out of some of the notebooks, the smell of the ocean dried into the pages when he cracked the spines again to sift through a summertime of drawings.

They’re precise, for the most part. Practical, with neatly described dimensions, notation in a scrunched-up hand because writing hurt, but even then it was impossible not to do it. She had to record what she saw underneath the water.

Sea urchins chewing through the holdfasts at the bottom of kelp, their bodies so bright with the water fleshing down past the moving canopy. Lilith, diving to the seafloor to watch them, armed with the ruler from her father’s old geometry set. Lilith, finding their fivefold symmetry, noting the length of each spine and gently prizing their tube feet from the rocks to carry one of them ashore.

And Michael is like her so he doesn’t balk when she describes slotting her penknife into its shell, little notes on how the spines still moved, and for how long. Observing them down on the sea bed and noting in a scrawl surrounded by water droplets “spines used for locomotion?”

There are drawings of her octopus friend. One, from memory, of her wrapped around Lilith’s arm, trailing her suckers up towards the elbow joint. She finds, scrunched in against this drawing, an almost indecipherable note that Michael mistook for a child’s attempt at an artist’s signature. But it’s not that - when she was eight she never dreamed that anyone would read her notes, or care as much as she did about the ocean. There, in tiny writing, she finds a note (to herself, perhaps?) that reads “me and Octi in july. it was warm.”

It’s a charter of one small stretch of coastline, every species hunted down and documented. She only dissected a few of them, just crabs and sea urchins, comb jellies and sea sponges and, once, a dead pyjama shark.

The others she only observed, diving until she was dizzy and only for as long as a breath could hold her.

Michael sends her the proof, and it’s beautiful. her coloured sketches and her simpler ones arrayed around the sections of commentary she sent him in return emails, over months and months and months. Next to that, her childish observations - crude science, but some of it astounds her. It’s almost poetry, or maybe it only seems like it, to her.

Because she lived it, lungs aching in the aching depth, watching the kelp sway and cast shadows. An octopus wrapped around her arm, following the span and clench of her fist with its little arms, watching the waves crash overhead but sitting calm in the drag of the undertow. It was the only peaceful place in the entire world, back then.

Lilith has found another one since then.

The proof copy of the book arrives festooned in bright customs stamps, stickers haphazard on the cardboard. Lilith scatters packing peanuts across her office floor when she opens it, makes a mental note to pick them up before paprika tries to eat them. The cover is what she expects, but it steals her breath. It’s the drawing of her octopus, tangled around the thinness of Lilith’s seven-year old arm. She can almost feel the water moving around her, the pressure of the suckers on her skin.

Camila finds her staring at it, coming gently into the room with a thermos of soup and half a plastic-wrapped loaf of bread under one arm. Hearing her, Lilith looks up, and there are tears in her eyes.

She blinks, slow, and Camila is there, leaning down to take Lilith's jaw in her hands, thumb swooping over her cheeks.

“It's here,” Lilith mumbles, inarticulate in the presence of her own tears.

And she can’t explain it, really.

Only that she was happy, back then. Curled up in her crab hoodie with her notebook, sketching the sea stacks that you can spot from on top of the cliffs. Her coloured pencils scattered in the sand as she switched between them, trying to capture the deep green of the kelp suffused in sunlight, the red trail of innards from the pyjama shark she hauled up onto the sand. Sea urchins and the quiet rustling of their spines. Jellyfish in their medusa-phase trailing their tentacles.

The peace of floating with them, of following fish and watching sessile creatures creep over the seabed. It was her home, her safest and most sacred place.

But she was also alone, and it was also lonely. Walking home to her unlatched window, she’d sneak down to steal crackers and cheese from the pantry, or cold cuts of ham from the refrigerator - bathed in that cold glow in her bare feet, hands covered in tiny punctures from handling sea urchins without care. She used to pour alcohol-based hand sanitizer over them in the kitchen sink, wincing, and then find the aftertaste of it on the crackers and the cheese.

“I just…” she leans into Camila's touch. “I miss being there, and I don't.”

Camila nods - and Lilith thinks she does understand, growing up poor, hungry, looking after her little brother when the money ran out mid-week.

She leans down, and Lilith rises to meet her, feeling for an instant like she’s back home, surging up towards the air and the light.

Cam kisses her, and Lilith lets her eyes flutter closed because this is it. Her second, sacred, peaceful place. And maybe she’s a fool for finding it in Camila's mouth, but Lilith is a lover of short-lived creatures.

And this one, at least, can also love her back.

[monstersandmaw]

Hello friends! Surprise!! Another WIP for you of Demon's story. I know you wanted Oats the dad-bod kelpie too, and I promise he's not been forgotten about, but Demon's story is written up to Chapter Four at this point, so I figured I'd spend a couple of hours editing this for you tonight, and post it on Patreon as a WIP. 

I really hope you enjoy this - I think it's one of my favourite things I've ever written, and it's dedicated to everyone who has wished for their own demon (or equivalent!) to come and be their fake romantic partner to get them out of an awkward ex situation... You're seen...!

Content: pining, hiding in a bathroom to avoid an awkward encounter with an ex, fake boyfriends trope, and lots of fluff. Seriously, watch your teeth, folks. It's sweet. We also meet Coco and Țepeș a bit, and there are some other cameos from the Full Moon Motorcycles gang!

Wordcount: 6470 (!)

Chapter One (WIP) here

Demon needn’t have worried about his Ducati.

By the time he’d done a U-turn, reached the t-junction at the end of Grosvenor Street, and turned right, the bike’s familiar roar splintered the peace of the night loudly enough to set off two car alarms as he passed, and he laughed, leaning lower and sending the bike practically flying. Either he’d left the spell's radius of influence, or the witch had relented. Either way, he was relieved that the others wouldn’t have to know about his feisty little witch just yet. After the shit he’d said to both Pumpkin and Țepeș about their getting involved with a human though, he knew he deserved it.

As his mind followed the path of those thoughts, he shook his head like he was trying to shake raindrops off the visor. That feisty little witch was not his. He didn’t even know the witch’s damned name, nor did he want to.

Except…

… he did.

He wanted that witch’s name in his mouth; in his head.

Yes, he wanted to know him, but Demon also ached to know the intimate feel of the witch’s magic, and maybe even to have it drew on his own. Witches took all sorts of familiars to regulate and manage their magic, and some even took demons…

Maybe — no.

Fuck.

No.

He knew what that kind of yoke felt like, and he had fought every day to keep humans’ attention off him precisely because of it. But that yoke had been slotted unwillingly over him before. What if this time he wanted it?

No.

Fuck. No.

The Ducati screamed beneath him and he realised he’d hit neutral instead of second like a fucking noob. He ground his teeth and focused on the bike and on the road.

He had planned to go back to Full Moon Motorcycles to see if any of the others were around — some, like Pumpkin and Barbie, didn’t really sleep, after all — but instead he took the motorway away from town, and rode until the pastel wash of dawn lit up the sky behind the nearby rolling hills.

If that pink hue was almost the exact colour of his witch’s rosebud mouth, he’d soon be turning his back on it to ride home anyway.

A week passed, and Demon’s mood was tangibly so much worse than usual over those next seven days that Țepeș finally punched him on the shoulder to get his attention as they drew their two Ducatis up beside each other outside Hank’s shop.

As the vampire’s gloved hand connected none-too-gently with his right shoulder, Demon snarled openly at him, rounding on his best friend and baring his teeth beneath the visor, snapping like a cornered dog. He felt like a cornered dog, though it wasn’t anyone’s fault but his.

Adi tactfully took her leave of the pair of them, the delicate little human sliding off Țepeș’ pillion seat and kissing his shoulder as she passed. “I’ll see you inside?” she asked, and the vampire nodded.

Țepeș didn’t usually join them for morning rides, given how lethally dangerous the sunlight was to him, but Adi was there, and if Adi wanted Țepeș to be somewhere, there he was. It was nauseating. For a former SAS solider who was built like a brick shithouse, Țepeș was undeniably soft and squishy beneath all that protective leather now. Certainly where Adi was concerned anyway. They’d just been lucky that Adi was cool with a group of bikers full of non-humans. Demon was sure that Țepeș was feeding from her now and again too, which was a whole new level of intimacy and trust that he couldn’t quite fathom.

Țepeș jerked his helmeted head upwards in a ‘what’s going on with you?’ gesture and spread his hands to drive the question home. He also directed his helmet pointedly at the pillion seat which was still very much in evidence on a bike which had never once seen a passenger in the entire time Demon had been riding with Hank’s crew at Full Moon Motorcycles.

The sparking, skittering unease that had been crackling around inside Demon like lightning for seven whole days now threatened to come roaring out of him, but he leashed it with an effort and bit it all back, breathing heavily. Țepeș didn’t deserve his petty irritation. The vampire was the closest thing he had now to a best friend, and he wasn’t about to throw it all away over some human he barely knew.

“It’s nothing,” Demon muttered into the cushioning of his helmet, but Țepeș wasn’t having any of it. When Demon made to swing his leg over his bike and stump away into the shop to avoid talking about it, Țepeș revved his bike insistently, angrily. Deafeningly. He didn't talk often, and Demon had only heard his scratchy, damaged voice a handful of times, but man, he found ways to be expressive when he needed to be.

“Let it go, Țepeș,” he said heavily, shaking his head.

Before they’d set off earlier, he’d promised Hank that he’d stay for coffee and a bit of a chat with everyone after the morning’s ride, and unfortunately, that oath now bound him as securely as a perfect chalk summoning circle. Instead, all he wanted was to get back to his apartment, shed his clothes and his glamour like snakeskin, and simply… wallow.

Read the whole thing over on Patreon on early release for just $3!! Or consider becoming a $5 and getting access to an exclusive monster romance story once every month!

[lcs-library]

Ommggg I love this game :') can I order a green tea or matcha tea (any one of those:3) for Itaru? 🌸🌸 btw I love ur writing T-T so happy the requests are back on even if they're only for a lil bit XD

UWAHHHHHH TYSM ;^; Hope you enjoy!!

Request rules

Request game

Matcha: How do they propose to their s/o?

🎮 Marriage is a huge commitment, and he wants to be sure he’s ready for it. No matter what the Spring Troupe has taught him, the idea of picking someone and sticking with them is still a scary concept. When it comes to you, though, I think he knew pretty early on that he was ready for forever this time.

🎮 He was pretty smart about bringing up the topic of marriage, and if you were ready and okay with it. Once he was really, really sure, he had to hype himself up to actually propose.

🎮 But how would he do it? Where? Did he want it to be really big, or something small but unexpected? Was he even ready? Would he ever be?

🎮 It took a lot of thought, but he finally managed to come up with a plan.

🎮 It was a surprise when Itaru asked you to go to the arcade with him that evening, though you took him up on the offer.

🎮 As promised, he picked you up after he finished his work for the day, and the two of you took off.

🎮 The evening was nice, and you spent it ragging on each other for your fighting game skills, despite every match being quite even.

🎮 Though, just before closing, Itaru suggested going to one of the claw machines to win you a cute plushie to remember the day by. You cheekily protested, noting that you already have too many… oh, but what’s one more?

🎮 He laughed, slipping the token into the slot. The way he moved the catcher was honestly impressive, with each movement being scarily precise, up until it hovered above a fluffy tanuki plush.

🎮 With a slam of the button, the catcher lowered, perfectly picking it up, and you could have sworn you saw him wipe away a bead of sweat. This usually wasn’t such a big deal to him…

🎮 The machine chimed, and Itaru took the plushie out of the door.

🎮 Once he did, he handed it to you with a chuckle.

🎮 “There ya go. But there’s one more prize I managed to catch,” he said with a smirk.

🎮 He knelt to reach into the prize area of the machine once more, but what he pulled out was unexpected.

🎮 You felt your breath catch as you squeezed the tanuki just a little closer, right as Itaru pulled out a small box. His expression softened as he began to properly kneel, unveiling the ring.

🎮 “Will you marry me?”

Green Tea: How do they comfort their s/o? 

🎮 Itaru’s main source of comfort is distraction and escapism, and, for him, that applies to you, too.

🎮 So when he sees you looking down in the dumps, his immediate response is to wrap you in a blanket, order some pizza, and turn on your favorite show or play a game you like with you.

🎮 Maybe you won’t talk to him just yet, but it doesn’t matter. He won’t force it. The goal right now is to calm you down, you can discuss it later.

🎮 He’ll offer simple decisions to get you out of your head, too, like picking between two sodas or what show to watch next.

🎮 He’s not really one for physical affection when it comes to comfort, though if an issue is starting to overwhelm you, he’ll take your hand and give it a good squeeze to let you know he’s still there, or to give you something else to think about.

🎮 Of course, once you’re back up to speed and feeling a bit better, he’ll congratulate you with a quick kiss to the top of your head and a pat on the back.

[itsaash]

Hamptons Cubs continued....

We've got history together

The prompts from @noots-fic-fests have been invaluable in actually getting this AU written, with the character credit of course to @lumosinlove

Remember when personal chef Leo was invited by sweetheart Finn to bring his boyfriend up for the week to his house in the Hamptons? But then I left you on a cliffhanger on how Finn and Logan knew each other?? like 3 months ago?? Here's their backstory! (about 2000 words, rated T)

Read on ao3

Finn, for some unknowable reason, was taking History 1039: First Empires: Power and Propaganda in the Ancient World, and was actually looking forward to it each week. It was a smile in a crowd, a time slot highlighted deep green (which was the colour for good things, peaceful things), a moment to look forward to amid his absolutely manic final semester. And well, if he was being honest with himself, it was the time he saw Tremblay. Logan Tremblay. At a heavy wooden table, absolutely surrounded by reference books, he had learned Logan had played hockey as a kid, as Finn had too, and they’d traded hockey nicknames, seldom used now, and Tremzy had been a fixture in his colour-coded, highly precise day planner. Because if it wasn’t in the planner, it didn’t happen, and he needed those study sessions to happen.

Finn had known since freshman year that he needed another history class and had been putting it off, so here he was in his final semester, finally taking one. And the flutter in his heart whenever he sat down by Logan during the lectures made him appreciate his top notch procrastination skills.

The problem, one of the problems, is that history textbooks aren’t actually well written. Finn would find himself writing ‘we need to pick a theme here and stick to it’ in the margins. His book was marked up to the nines, comma splices fixed, bright orange highlighter over unnecessary details that only clog up the plot, and plenty of sky blue ballpoint pen notes of ‘where are we going with this?’.

But in this class he was expected to remember all those orange details? And had to write essays about the confusing dates and names and meandering themes? He should’ve picked a history class that covered a decade, tops. Any decade would do. This class was so broad it made his head spin. But, another class wouldn’t have had Tremzy in it, so.

So, their highly exclusive study group of two took up a permanent Wednesday evening slot of deep green in the planner. Logan could remember the dates and details and helped Finn with mnemonics so he could remember them too. They made up back-story and funny details to help Finn’s brain tie together a rambling plot. And Finn would read the textbook aloud to Logan on the days where he was too tired to read the English words and the scenes of ancient history would dance in the air between them as they helped each other learn.

The old fashioned study room had huge white candles in sconces around the room and the candles dripped their wax down the sides, within the glass containers. Finn stared at the patterns the wax made on the outside of the candle, tried to read them like tea leaves. Tried to remember dates and names and if that shade of green had always been the one associated with good things? The light from the candles sparkled off the glass holders and Finn knew that green would always mean good, now.

They were just weeks away from the end of the semester now, final essays in the final editing phase (the part Finn was actually good at. Logan may have learned quickly to send Finn his absolute earliest drafts, just to enjoy the sight of him opening his case of markers and highlighters with a flourish and smile). The sun was staying out later now, still shining as their evening study sessions went on into the night. They found themselves invited to a party at the hockey house after going to watch a Crimson game together. They had traded stories of their successes in junior hockey, and an injured player watching from the stands had joined their conversation and invited them to a party.

“Bruh, it’s gonna be summer vibes. We’re bringing on summer early. Wear florals or some shit. The chicks dig florals.”

Finn laughed, “I can probably manage that.”

“Make your outfit as colourful as your papers, Harzy,” Logan had teased. The player, Wags, upon hearing of Finn’s editing skills had desperately begged Finn to do just a quick edit of his last English paper. Finn agreed, laughing.

“Harzy, you’re a beaut! Fuckin comin through like a champ. Ok I gotta go join the boys for intermission pep talk but come by the house Saturday! Drinks all night for you two!” He pointed his crutch back at Finn and Logan as he walked away, “fuckin florals!”

Logan laughed and bumped Finn’s shoulder, “Yeah, Harzy, you beaut.”

Finn bumped Logan back. “Shut up. Roping me into editing in exchange for drinks. And you’re the one with flow,” he said, hitting the back of his hand into the bottom of Logan’s dark curls, which did flow just past his ears.

“Come on, as if your hair isn’t the nicest in any room,” Logan scoffed. He brushed his hand past Finn’s temple as if he was dismissing Finn’s thick red hair, but the touch lingered a bit longer than a dismissal would, and Finn drew his hand back as he felt the air thicken. Their eyes locked together for a long moment. Finn swallowed.

“I should head home,” Logan said, standing up, brushing imaginary dust off his pants. “Essay to finish. Colour coded editing to decipher.”

Finn laughed, tried to make it sound natural and not high and tight.

“Yeah, ok. If we stay here any longer we’ll start calling each other bruh.”

“Yeah, put a red line right through that shit, Harz,” Logan laughed. And the air settled back to normal around them, for now.

But they did call each other bruh the rest of the week.

~~~

The party was fun. Wags came through with the drinks and introduced Finn in every room as “a total lifesaver, bruh.”

They’d danced, and played beer pong (Logan was unfairly coordinated, even amidst a house full of athletes), and debated music and majors with the other students.

But by midnight Finn and Logan were happy to leave the hockey players to their ever stranger games, and Finn walked with Logan back to his dorm. They collapsed into one of the couches in the sitting room off the main entry, it seemed no one was partying here tonight.

“Have fun, Tremzy?” Finn asked through a yawn. Logan tipped his head back against the couch and was quiet for a long moment. “Yeah, it was fun. Do you miss it? Hockey? And the built-in friends?” Finn also tilted his head back, and turned his head towards Logan. He waved a hand in the air. “Yes, and no. The sport itself, I loved, would totally play some more. And I made some awesome friends. But the locker room culture overall isn’t quite where I wish it was? It made it hard, in the end, and I just stopped having fun.”

“Ouias, même chose. And I just wanted to focus on other things.”

They sat for a long minute beside each other, heads resting back and looking at each other. Something switched in the air, like one of the sconce candles had been lit, all of a sudden, on. And Finn leaned over and was kissing Logan before he even knew he was going to.

Logan was still for just a moment before he threaded his hand into Finn’s hair and pulled him closer. Finn held Logan’s jaw in both his hands, unbearably gently, and they settled into each other, the press and movement of lips against lips, jaw, ear, neck.

“I’m not gay,” Logan murmured against his mouth, after some minutes, and Finn backed away slightly.

“That’s ok, that’s fine,” Finn said. He kept his hand cupping Logan’s jaw, never wanted to touch anything else after this sacred skin against his fingertips. “I think I’m bi, but lately there have been more guys in my mind, so who knows.” Not guys, the inner editor in his mind corrected. Guy. Singular. Be specific with your words. It’s green eyes and broad shoulders that have been building a home in your mind. But Finn couldn’t make his mouth say these truths, not with Logan’s eyes looking that stormy and wild and worried.

He leaned in again, 80% of the way, ok maybe 95%, but then waited to see if Logan wanted more. Finn melted and felt like he might float away when Tremz leaned in to press their lips together again. It was soft and tentative but Logan’s grip against his bicep with one hand and side with the other transferred plenty of desire and care. Finn thought he might keep his hand on Logan’s jaw until his hand cramped, it felt so good and right there, the slight stubble soft enough to feel like the best texture toy in existence.

Their lips pressed together like a dance. For a while soft and sweet, just Logan’s fingertips on Finn’s biceps and Finn’s fingers in their new home. Then it turned hotter, deeper. They gripped tighter and moved skating fingers across each other’s chests and hips.

Finn slung a leg over both of Logan’s, still sitting beside him, not on him, but now turned fully towards each other so they could press their chests together in a gasp.

“I thought you liked girls,” Logan said, very unfortunately using his mouth to talk instead of kiss. “You talked about Hannah a lot back at the start of the semester.”

“I do like Hannah. I like a lot of people,” Finn said into the hinge of Logan’s jaw. I like you, his brain amended.

“Have there been, you said you’ve been thinking of boys? Have there been guys in your bed too?” Logan said slowly, accent heavy around the words, the sentence stumbling as his fingers traced up and down Finn’s side. Finn’s heart galloped ahead before he could answer. He pulled back slightly, feeling that Logan really wanted an answer.

“Well, no, not lately. I mean, I have … well I’ve had a lot of people in my bed honestly. But lately, no, no guys in my bed for ... quite some time.” At least two months, Finn thought. A bit more? Which in retrospect was not the norm for him, but he honestly hadn’t noticed the lack these past weeks. “Why? Are there guys in your bed? You haven’t told me about anyone you’ve hooked up with.”

Logan just shook his head, fingers gripping into Finn’s hips, but he didn’t lean in again. “No, there hasn’t been, I mean I’ve done stuff with girls, but I haven’t, merde,” Logan looked up at the ceiling before levelling his gaze at Finn. “Finn, you’re the first guy I’ve kissed.” Finn raised his eyebrows. “I honestly don’t know what, don’t know who I like,” he stuttered.

Finn traced his fingertips over Logan’s cheeks. “Do you like this?” He trailed his fingers down Logan’s neck. Logan nodded. “And this?” Finn leaned in to place a soft kiss just below Logan’s ear.

“Absolutely.” Logan tilted his neck to give Finn more access.

“Ok, well then, Tremzy, do you want to keep kissing me? You don’t have to. It’s so fine if you want to stop.”

Logan just leaned in and captured Finn’s mouth again and Finn let himself be kissed within an inch of his life.

Some time later they slowed, and stopped. They peppered small kisses across each other’s faces for a long time before actually stopping. Finn walked Logan up to his room holding hands. They kissed one more time at Logan’s door. Finn felt like the house around them may as well not be there, like he may as well be floating with Logan, under the stars, for as much as he took notice of anything other than the soft lips, the scruff of hair, the hard muscles under his hands. It felt a little bit like magic.

In the scheme of things, their history together included dozens of evenings together with books strewn about the heavy wood table, a difficult course that had been successfully navigated by the help of each other, moments of care and kindness and friendship. But that was one class, a handful of months, one kiss. Years ago.

They had continued to study after that night, proof-reading each other's essays. There had been more casual touching, a hand on a knee or a stroke across a back as they walked by, but they hadn’t kissed again. Finn thought maybe they would at the end of the semester. But then the semester ended in a whirlwind of exams and papers and best wishes from so many people and Finn had been travelling into the city to find an apartment on the weekends and doing job interviews at magazines and publishing houses. They just … hadn’t. And then he’d dropped his whole fucking bag onto the tracks that day in New York and he’d decided to switch to an android phone, and the kiss, and Tremzy, were a fond but distant memory.

Except, now here he was. Right in-fucking-front of him. At his house. For the next 10 days. With Leo. Leo was his boyfriend.

What the actual fuck.

[tailsbeth-writes]

So happy that you write for SKAM! Could you write a Drabble of how Lucas brings Eliott home after he finds him?

So I'm only writing for Skam (OG) as I've rewatched that a lot more but I'll make an exception this time, I've rewatched some of the clips so I hope I can do Lucas & Elliott justice!

‘You’re not alone.’ 

Elliott held onto that thought, Lucas’s voice echoing around his mind as he was guided out of the tunnel. Lucas placed his arm around his waist, Elliott was ready to crumple into his arms if he was honest. His chest ached, his throat burned. 

‘You’re not alone.’ 

There were spaces in his mind that were mere blurs. Elliot couldn’t remember how they’d got to Lucas’s apartment, only clocking they were there when Lucas turned his key in the door. The light of the living room felt ridiculously bright when Lucas flicked it on. His eyes flinched and Lucas switched it back off, using the low light coming from the city outside to guide Elliot to the sofa. 

‘You’re not alone.’

Lucas peeled off Elliot’s jacket and t-shirt. Elliot shuffled off his shoes as he sunk into the sofa, Lucas quickly slotted in next to him. Elliot laid his head onto Lucas’s lap, pulling his arms around himself to self sooth. Lucas’s hands glided through Elliot’s wild hair, stroking with precision and care. Elliot’s tears returned, dribbling out of his eyes with no control. Lucas placed gentle kisses on his forehead, his lips touching him as if he were as fragile as a feather. 

‘I’m here Elliott, you're not alone, it’s okay.’

[the-writer-nerd-ro]

I made up a birthday for Sara Pena everyone say happy birthday Sara Pena

Last Minute Surprise Party

Sara Pena normally had her schedule planned pretty precisely, with room to slot in parties as new gigs popped up, but this particular Thursday, June 29th, was suspiciously free.

“Do you want to do date night on Thursday?” Hunter Richardson offered, looking at the “shared” calendar on the fridge. Occasionally she added things like dentist appointments and bi-monthly cousin game night, but it was really Sara's calendar.

Sara looked up from the dining room table, where she was adding things to a Pinterest board labeled “surprise party inspo.”

“Hm? Oh, Thursday? Yeah! I didn't have anything planned for Thursday. What were you thinking?”

“We could go to that karaoke bar you like.”

“Really? You hate that place.”

“Yeah, but you love it.”

“Oh, okay, if you're sure.”

“We could even invite Petunia and Marian, if you want.”

“Ooh, a double date.” Petunia and Marian weren't official but the way Hunter and Sara had been meddling they might as well have been.

“Yeah,” Hunter said with a small smile. Sara was too busy pinning to notice that there was anything more to the smile than excitement about the double date.

“I’ll ask Petunia, you ask Marian,” Sara said.

Hunter had already asked both of them, but she nodded in agreement, her smile only growing a little more.

Hunter leaned over Sara’s shoulder and pressed a kiss into her cheek and then down to her neck, briefly eyeing the open pinterest page.

“It’s going to be great,” Hunter promised, having to turn away to hide her growing excitement.

Sara wasn’t suspicious about any ulterior motives. She trusted Hunter more than anyone else in the world, Hunter would never keep a secret to hurt her.

Hunter was hoping Sara would appreciate this particular secret. She'd lived with Sara long enough to pick up on her context clues, but she was wary about misreading some signals and doing something Sara hadn't outright asked for.

She'd voiced her concerns to Marian and Petunia and both of them had said it was probably fine. You only turned 31 once, after all, and that deserved to be celebrated.

Sara continued to act like it wasn't her birthday all day Thursday, though she did curl her already wavy hair and she wore her nicest, newest sports bra to karaoke. It was black with thin rainbow stripes running horizontally across the front and back, a subtle but undeniable bit of pride at the tail-end of pride month. The hot pink t-shirt she wore underneath and her lime green pants weren't as subtle. She was also wearing a chunky necklace covered in clay beads that looked like pieces of fruit to tie the whole thing together and imply that both she and her drink were fruity, as well as a pair of lemon slice earrings as an homage to Hunter.

Hunter was dressed a little bit like Winona Ryder in Beetlejuice, so they made quite a pair. Comparatively, Petunia and Marian looked incredibly normal. Petunia was wearing a blue floral dress and Marian was wearing a custom racerback tank top that advertised his lawn maintenance business and denim cut-off shorts.

Hunter texted underneath the table: I invite you to my girlfriend's birthday dinner and you dress-up as a billboard? Smh

Marian just sent a winky face back.

They ordered their drinks and some appetizers to split before taking a seat near the stage.

“I love the vibes in here,” Sara said, “it would be a great place to party.”

“Then let's make it a party,” Hunter said, taking Sara's hand and squeezing it. “Happy birthday, Sara without an H.”

Sara blinked in surprise. “How'd you know?”

“I just know you,” Hunter said, trying to be sappy, before adding, “you've been pinning surprise birthday party ideas for two weeks now, and I reached out to your friend Nora on Facebook to confirm the date.”

Sara blushed. “That's so thoughtful, to plan all of this for me.”

“I was worried you'd be upset that I went behind your back, I know there's probably a reason you didn't tell me your birthday to begin with.”

Sara shrugged sheepishly. “It's dumb.”

“Dumb reasons are valid too.”

“It seems like birthdays are just an excuse to party, and I have all the party in my life I could ever ask for. But something small, and personal like this is the best surprise I could have asked for.”

Hunter let out a sigh of relief. “That's good, because it's about as much party as I can manage.”

Sara leaned over and planted a kiss on Hunter's lips. “It's perfect. And don't worry- you don't have to do karaoke with me. It's enough to have you here, cheering me on.”

And, as Sara did a Shania Twain song that Hunter personally hated, no one was cheering louder.

[kingkatsuki]

Some silly little thoughts about my silly little self-ship with Bakugou during an apocalypse AU.

(This could basically fit into my zombie fic but we won’t go that deep rn)

For @t-tomuras Apocalypse self-ship event. Please feel free to join I’d love to read yours!💕

Trust

We find each other when we need each other the most. Both of us separated from our groups— the only difference is his group is still alive, or at least he thinks they are. Mine are completely gone, lost to the virus that’s taken so much from everyone.

It’s like Bakugou is built for this world, shooting the crossbow with precision as he hits a wild rabbit with one arrow. Maybe he was a cop, or a hunter before the shit hit? The conversation hasn’t gone that far yet, he still doesn’t completely trust me.

The first night he stays awake, claiming he’s keeping watch— when really he’s watching me. Ensuring I don’t wake up during the night to steal his pack and his weapons, leaving him completely exposed to any kind of attack. He doesn’t know I’m not that kind of person yet, and that’s fine. It’s the best nights sleep I’ve had in a long time, as I rub my eyes and ask why he didn’t wake me up for my turn to keep watch, “Didn’t wanna wake ya.”

But he trusts me enough to protect me, when one day we’re surrounded by a group of bikers. Kicking their stands as they dismount the bikes, the smiles on their faces betray the way their hands hold tight to the barrels of the guns on their hips.

“Haven’t seen a woman in weeks.” One groans, his eyes drinking in every inch of me as I feel Bakugou physically stiffen beside me, a booted foot widening his stance as he’s ready to reach for his own weapon.

“She’s mine.” He almost snarls, and even in such a dangerous situation I feel my stomach swirl.

He doesn’t fully trust me yet, but he doesn’t want to lose me either.

Bakugou wonders how I’ve made it this far, when I’m a terrible shot with minimal survival skills. Luckily his reflexes are far swifter than mine as he manages to stab one of the undead through the skull before it splits me open.

He can feel himself beginning to soften around me, especially when I crawl into a sleeping bag with him at night so the men believe that we really are a couple (and so they don’t try anything anyway— because he still doesn’t fully trust them), but the warmth of my body against his is enough to secure him the best nights sleep he’s had in months.

It’s like I give him a purpose again, more than just trying to find his group. Admittedly, he’d begun giving up when he’d spent so much time alone and the only reason he continued was because of me. Now he feels like he’s gotta do all he can to protect me, and I’ll be safest back with them.

“You’re gonna get us both killed one day,” He shakes his head as I sit beside him, nursing a pack of almond M&Ms I rescued on a medicine run. Reaching up to slot one between his pursed lips with a smile.

“I might die, but you’re made for this world Bakugou Katsuki.”

So now he finds himself looking for those same stupid M&Ms whenever he’s out trying to gather supplies, something he hates himself for now as he cherishes the way my eyes light up whenever he produces a new packet for me or the way I wrap my arms around him when he does.

And it’s selfish, but part of me doesn’t want him to find his group again. Because I don’t want him to leave me, I don’t want things to go back to how they used to be. Because now my life is split into two halves — the part before Bakugou Katsuki, and the part now.

[tronuprising-re-askblog]

ACCESSING ARCHIVED DATA…

Character Archive I : TREV (part 1) User: Data under non-disclosure - Property of ENCOM 1984 Developed in 1982 OPEN FILE? (Y/N)?

Program Function: Originally designed to be a language translator program, the User of Trev realized during development that his program’s analysis function was surprisingly better than functional, and would actually be far better suited for a Program Maintenance Software. Within the system this User was designing programs, Trev had come to know the Open Server as an equally dangerous yet diverse culture to grow in. During his youth, Trev had gotten to know many of the programs that came and went, from those simply passing through the system, to patients that were sent from long distances to be under his care.

With the Open Server, Trev spent his free time ice skating in the icy flatlands of his server, or doing research on User Biology. He was captivated by their methods of in using physical means to treat patients, whereas the standard was to access the program’s data. In Trev’s server, that data was accessed not through Identity Disks like on The Grid, but rather a slot that could be accessed on the back of their neck. Since the means of treatment already had a somewhat physical element, Trev believed that a marriage in User and Program techniques could create medical breakthroughs for Programs, and potentially help overcome their fragility/prone to derezzing entirely from a single major injury.

After Kevin Flynn learned of Trev during a business meeting, he had tracked down Trev’s User and spoke with him. Flynn was very impressed with his skills, and offered a position at ENCOM, but for unknown reasons, he had refused. Rumors surfaced about the possibility of the User being on the run from Russian Officials, but nothing was ever confirmed, as the User had vanished not long after Flynn had met him. Whether he was caught or had went into hiding is unknown, and Kevin Flynn himself was adamant about not disclosing the User’s identity, in case the latter belief was true, and had officially wiped all records of the User, or had identifying code lines deeply encrypted, leaving only the designed Programs and Flynn himself to truly know said identity. Before the User had vanished, Flynn paid an unknown sum to select five programs from the User’s roster so he could integrate them into his own developing system. Within the Server, many programs had heard rumors of The Grid, but only whispers of energy and data going to a property that was marked as belonging to Kevin Flynn, but would quickly disappear into encrypted territory that nobody could pass through or even take a peek at. So when the famed User presented himself via text commands, explaining his plans to give five chosen Programs the option to leave their server and join The Grid, the reaction was very mixed. Trev was one of the chosen programs, and after seven Cycles of deliberating (24 Hours in the User World), he made his decision to leave his home and accept the offer. By this time, Trev had been Two User Years old (1Deca4Xila Cycles to be precise) and had seen a great deal—much of it, to his dismay, in the confinements of Civil War. To him, despite leaving home and all his beloved friends, those who he would call family, it was the new start he had been yearning for for nearly a DecaCycle.

On the trip back, he had learned something in those 5.5 Cycles (19 Hours in the User World). Kevin Flynn was one of the most Exhausting Users Trev had ever encountered.

He had talked nearly the entire time. It didn’t occur to Kevin Flynn as he was transfixed with the dialogue commands he had been exchanging with Trev, that while it had only been hours for him, for Trev, entire Cycles were going by. Cycles are a Program’s standard day. And each unit of User Time was 7x longer for a program (i.e. 1 second = 7 Nanos 1 minute = 7 Micros, etc.); to conclude: Trev did not get much rest during the trip. (Each Program got to travel in their own personal flash drive) In fairness, Trev supposed a User would find a Program being fascinated with physical anatomy to be a little strange. It seemed curiosity was a plague he and Flynn had in common—even if he was a little insufferable.

Upon arrival to The Grid, Trev could not deny the beauty in it. The architecture, the size of it—it truly was a vision. The newly integrated Programs were all given suits, as well as Identity Disks.

Trev found them to be far too slimming and uncomfortable—why was everyone walking around with lightlines bared like a newborn with suits that hugged the body so tight you could see every curve on the body? He didn’t care if the overall climate was warmer, he would have liked to have pants, at least. Furthermore, when Trev was invited to The Grid, he was under the impression that this very large system was going to be a professional environment. So, it was safe to say, when he was told after settling in to his new apartment that there was a welcome party in the best nightclub in town…

…this was not the environment he expected.

Parties were not Trev’s scene.

But the mood shift did catch his attention, particularly when a group of programs began to walk in. He had heard whispers of a famous Security Program, “Tron” was his name.

Most Programs tended to stare at Tron, who wouldn’t stare at a legendary program, but someone else had actually caught Trev’s eye, that late Cycle. He was never one to believe in falling in love, or Programs being made while having a specific Counterpart out there to be their other half…

But something made everything slow down, in that moment…

…and he was awestricken.

[chuchotements-de-le-radiateur]

DnD character concept: Artificer

So, despite my interest in DnD I have never had a chance to play it. This means jack shit to my fantasy, which immediately latched to the whole concept and started imagining characters, locations, etc.

So i just decided to go through the classes and come up with some interesting concepts for them. Let's go alphabetically and start with the Artificer.

"The clockwork heart"

Cracked glass and bent gears. Pocket watch dropped by a careless nobleman, stomped and forgotten, picked up and traded by a curious kid. Traded for what — you don't remember. The glass is removed, the shards are melted and cover is reformed anew. The gears are taken out one by one, by steady hands holding the tiniest of pincers. There is rhythm and order to things. You know that. You feel that. Hands keep moving, pick up the pieces and slot them into their place. A clank of metal, a tug of a spring, a turn of a screw. Then another. Three more and the hands rest. The ticking is rhythmical, steady, but something is amiss. Your eyes follow the hands with curiosity, watching what they will do next. After a brief pause the cover is removed again, the edge of a spring is bent just a tiny amount and everything is covered again. And pause. The ticking continues, but there is a note there now, one that you feel more than hear. All is right. Your hands rest. For now, the panic subsides. But soon the the chaos will become to much again, demanding to be ordered, to be fixed, and the hands will start moving again. You hope you will find something to fix by then. The ticking inside you used to be soothing, calming, reassuring, but lately you can barely sleep, as it grows louder and louder with each passing day, and subsides ever slower.

There was an explosion. Or so you've been told. You were an apprentice to a talented artificer, helping them make their ambitions a reality, push the limits of what is possible, weaving magic and technology together in ways you couldn't imagine. You weren't as well educated, as experienced, as driven, but you were talented and willing to put in the work. They inspired you, and though it was hard, you kept working. But days, weeks, even months prior to that day turned into a blur, with shattered fragments flashing in the dark. Fire. Pain. Sound. Hands. Their voice. You were found in the smoking ruins of their laboratory, alive but covered in bruises, cuts and burns. One wound was different — a big scar on your chest, almost healed, but one that was not there just a day ago. And the artificer was nowhere to be seen.

Days spent trying to remember what happened, you finally realized: whatever you did together, whoever made a mistake, you paid for it with your life. You remember dying. And then their hands, their voice, arguing with someone. You don't know what your master did to save you, but you are alive, and they are gone. And where you once heard heartbeat, you now hear ticking of gears and twisting of springs.

But as the days kept flowing, you understood that that's not all that changed. You see the world differently, understand it more clearly, sharper, ideas filling your head and your hands being more precise than ever. You build things you never thought you could. Except that you are getting less and less certain, if it is an ability, or a compulsion.

What you don't know, is that your master did not save you, or build the heart that keeps you alive. You were not a victim, You were a sacrifice. A price that your master paid for their communion and ascension with something beyond your comprehension. But whatever it was, it wanted you alive. It gave you this heart, it filled your head with ideas and kept your hands steady. And as you encounter more danger and make mistakes, as you fall in battle and come close to death again, even after your allies bring you back, even after you heal, you feel the ticking getting louder. And one day, as an dagger cut your hand deep as it could, as you were pushing the assassin away, you could swear that instead of the white bone, under the blood flowing from your hand you saw a dull shine of bronze and gold.